Holmes failed to note, or ignored, my lack of appetite at supper this evening. Simpson's sumptuous fare could not tempt me from the morose depression hovering within my breast. In contrast, Holmes was unusually spry and gregarious. After his self-imposed abstinence and fast of three days he was uniquely eager to be out of his rooms. He ate heartily, and did not actually mingle, but at least lingered on the edges of society. He acknowledged several admirers who stopped by the table.

Opposingly, I could hardly keep up a pretense of normalcy. I longed for a dark corner in which to hide, to privately deal with my turbulent reactions. Anger and vexation now overwhelmed my initial, extreme relief at his miraculous recovery.

Like the consummate actor/performer he is, my friend chatted of his dramatic faked death -- successfully deceiving the sinister Culverton Smith and me. To my disgrace, I failed to discern his sham. In a weak defense, I can only offer his talent at dissemination. Holmes outlined Smith's diabolical poisoning of his nephew -- his expertise in exotic poisons, his cold-blooded plot of the nephew and Holmes' murders.

Over dessert and coffee (which I optioned for several stiff brandies), Holmes delivered an eloquent discourse on poisons in general and certain Caribbean varieties in specific. He was keenly interested in a voodoo death-simulation drug, which induced near-death coma and was rumoured to be undetectable to physicians. He wished he had had the drug to use for Smith's benefit. His cocaine-induced bouts were bad enough. I thanked my lucky stars he did not have access to such an evil drug. I doubted I could have lived through the ordeal.

Holmes was preoccupied with death in his conversation. The cavalier and flippant attitude he displayed was extremely grating and upsetting to me. Death was not taken lightly by one whom saw so much of it as an occupational side effect. Or by one whom saw the shadow of death on his wife, and its spectre pressing-close on the shoulders of his truest friend. For those reasons I could not join in a discussion of exotic and outré forms of murder and demise.

Holmes has been ever so casual about murder since we met almost a decade ago. Of late, he has grown more reckless than ever, more strangely fascinated by death. I wonder if it was in any way connected with his unpleasant past -- something he rarely speaks of. Or is the risk born of cocaine abuse? His jocular humour of old has turned sardonic. He is still acutely intellectual and entertaining, but has acquired a dark side, which includes much brooding and morose introspection.

It would make an interesting study in mental obsessions to know what drives him so. My interest, as always, is far deeper than medical curiosity. Some lingering worry troubles my friend and I feel some of his emotional extremes, i.e. depression, nervous energy, are undercurrents of discontent within his mind.

Such disturbances might even explain his dreaded dependence on cocaine. A detailed study would be informative and beneficial. Unfortunately, I do not see Holmes enough, anymore, to conduct such a close study. Nor would my strained finances permit me to indulge in an esoteric specialty. I doubt I could maintain much objectivity with Holmes as my subject. I doubt Holmes would allow the study at all.

He has grown more and more defensive of his drug habit. I counter with a silent, yet obvious disapproval, which seems to unnerve him. As of yet, however, it has not prevented him from indulging in the cocaine. I live in the hope that I will one day succeed in breaking him of the destructive habit. It is heartrending to watch the slow deterioration of such a brilliant mind.

Tonight he never noticed my reticence and revulsion at his morbid narrative. My singular silence over dinner must have been taken as mute appreciation of his latest victory over a clever and ruthless foe. His self-critique of the cunning mastery and tour-de-force performance over Smith fell like blades to my sensitive nerves. To me his staged play had been mortifying torture.

How can I, even now, formulate words for the emotions I felt -- the pain of helplessness, the anguish of heartbreak, and the empty loneliness at entering his sickroom? Standing at the foot of his deathbed was an enactment of a nightmare I had experienced too many times to count. In how many perilous adventures, had I feared just this type of outcome? How could he know my deepest anguish had been realized today? Could he understand Culverton Smith had claimed two victims to his murder plot?

Many sleepless nights there had been over his safety -- which never seems to concern him at all. How could he play this role after Reichenbach? To him it was all part of the Great Game. To me there has never been thrill in the chase when he needlessly risked his life. I found no triumph in the capture of the deadly and near-lunatic Smith. I would rather have Smith, or Moriarty, or Roylot, or a dozen others free to roam London, than see Holmes killed.

While we waited for a cab outside Simpson's, he returned to his usual temperament. He noted my subdued attitude and nearly begged me to stay in my rooms, trying to extend the companionship, which I sensed he sorely needed after his imposed isolation. I hoped he could not read my own need for that contact with him after the terrible fright he had caused with his false illness. Part of me needed to stay near him to ease the fears of loss, which still lingered in my heart. Part of me wanted to acquiesce to HIS obvious need for companionship. The rational side of my mind knew that if I stayed I ran the risk of betraying my shattered nerves. Such a scene would be embarrassing to us both and I wanted to avoid that at all costs.

I was living away from Baker street -- filling in for an old associate -- Holmes did everything he could to persuade me to stay at Baker Street for a few days. It was his way of apology; oblique regrets at his insults, his prevarication, and his ruse of trapping Smith. The sumptuous dinner at our favourite haunt had been only the beginning. It was the only way he could apologize -- off-handedly and a little impersonally.

I could not stay. How could I convince him? At the best of times I could not withstand his commanding and dominant personality. Now he was persistent, driven by his own motivations. How could I refuse to help him -- help myself -- although it was disturbing to keep up the front?

I muttered half-hearted excuses about early calls in the morning. As expected, my companion accepted none of these and escorted me to a cab he hailed to take us to Baker Street.

My emotions were overwrought, too close to the surface to put up much of an act. I had but a few drinks before retiring to my old room. I brought out my notebook, knowing sleep to be impossible. Surrounded by the familiar past and the security of a future restored to me, I could at last find some objectivity with which to consider the events of the day.

At once I realized that, with my surrender to him on the lodgings for the night, my anger had eased. The alternative had been to walk away from Holmes when he needed me. He had given ample reasons for doing just that from the first year of our association, yet even then, when the bonds between us had been new and more easily broken, I had not instigated such a breach. I could not avail myself of the separation now, for to do so would be to condemn myself to the very fate that had terrorized me mere hours ago -- life without Holmes.

In this instance, as in all others, I could hold nothing against him for insensitivity or coldness. While he harboured both those traits in his personality he rarely exhibited them to me. Or rather, he never MEANT to be cold or aloof to me. His manner was sometimes brusque and arrogant, but it was only because his mental energies did not allow for a personal consideration at that time. I WAS his friend, after all. Certainly I should understand that he cared; that he valued me as a friend, that he was never purposely rude or hurtful to me.

I did understand, but tonight sympathy fled with the tide of overwhelming alarum I had felt at his contrived 'death'. Consuming fear and almost equally severe anger yet shadowed my every thought. I did not understand how he could have thought I would envision this as just another necessary game in his master role of consulting detective. I also knew he would never understand my fear and anger, even if I explained it to him.

"I owe you a thousand apologies," he had said.

He had been sincere and contrite in his own way. My inner wounds are too recent and deep to forgive him instantly. It will take time and much more than owed and never actually spoken apologies to cover the pain of this experience.

Holmes and I have faced death and danger before. He loves the risks and action of his cases. I share the thrills of such adventures. Sometimes he seems to purposely take a negligent view of his life and to realize the effect this has on me not at all. I know how real are the harrowing dangers of his career -- of himself -- to his very mortal life. I frequently have to protect him from fatal encounters.

What if I am not there one day? How can I balance my attention to separate obligations?

I will ALWAYS be there -- somehow -- to make the difference. No matter what the personal cost to myself, I cannot fail him. I will never allow a Culverton Smith to take Holmes' life. How could I live with myself if I failed him? The burden on my conscience would be too grievous to bear.

Like a searing brand, the hate-filled face of Culverton Smith is burned on my memory. Vengeance and loathing scarred his arrest. As the constables took him away I was pierced by the awesome and sinister danger of the man. His vile and vicious threats to both of us were chilling.

There are many more criminals like Smith, who would be pleased to see Holmes in a real repeat of today's staging. Even now the grief and fear wash over me from the 'death' of someone who is part of my heart and soul. I fear it now, with today's experience, more than ever before.